Circles and Paradoxes III: Echo of Chaos
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: The tiniest, most insignificant creature can change the world. Even tear it apart. Big BossOcelot. AUish. [hiatus]


**Circles and Paradoxes III**

_Echo of Chaos_

_  
Born free, as free as the wind blows  
As free as the grass grows  
Born free to follow your heart_

_Live free and beauty surrounds you  
The world still astounds you  
Each time you look at a star_

_Stay free, where no walls divide you  
You're free as the roaring tide  
So there's no need to hide_

_Born free, and life is worth living  
But only worth living  
'cause you're born free_

Born Free, Andy Williams

* * *

"That's ridiculous." 

"Everything is ridiculous to you."

Precisely as it should be. Calculated disbelief is the healthiest stance to take under most circumstances.

Like the assumption of guilty until proven innocent. It's only natural.

The problem with most circumstances is their consistent failure in taking Snake into account.

But that's a quality not limited to circumstances. It's universally spread and obviously incurable.

"Maybe," I concede. "But this has got to be a new landmark, even for you." I will myself to process the thought in all its ludicrousness, enforcing a few moments of strained silence as I gaze at the insect resting peacefully in the palm of my hand.

I turn an accusing stare onto him.

"A _butterfly_ can cause a tornado."

He doesn't even blink.

"Yeah, it can."

I know him a great deal better than most people can even hope for, yet I still can't figure out how he succeeds in keeping a straight face as he unleashes ideas such as these onto the unsuspecting world. Time after time.

That's part of what makes him so damn intriguing – gruesomely so. It's the thread-thin balance between ingenuity and idiocy.

At this moment, he's leaning strongly towards the latter.

There are several tactics applicable for these not-so-rare occasions. Absolute mind blocking. Extreme inflammatory irritation. A hasty retreat. Spontaneous head explosion.

Right now, the most advantageous route is playing along.

"Good thing I shot it, then."

Apparently displeased with my unappreciative regard for the fascinating topic, he sets me with an assured glare.

"I'm serious. I read it in a science magazine."

That explains it. You can never trust a scientist. Unless you have a gun firmly pointed at on him.

Actually, not even then.

Some of them are deluded enough to stick to their ridiculous theories under threat of death. Maybe after death, too. Now there's a theory that needs to be tested. Periodically, if possible.

"Since when do you read science magazines?"

He shrugs, looking dutifully apologetic, for once.

"I was on a mission. It was one of those last resort things."

"I see. Couldn't find the good kind of magazine, huh?"

I read the ambiguous face he makes as an admission of guilt, and hastily draw myself an appropriate mental picture.

Snake, stranded all alone on an enemy base. In a box. With no porn.

Sad.

Tragic, some would say.

"My sympathies."

He responds with a soft growl, thus completing a halfway transformation into a forest creature.

Forget vampire. He'd make a more than half-decent werewolf.

That is, if he didn't spend so much time spewing painful nonsense and handing out free headaches to enemies and allies alike.

"It doesn't even have to be a butterfly. It's a metaphor."

I groan.

There are few things worse than science.

Dubious literary devices are included among them.

"What good are metaphorical butterflies?"

It's a valid question, and he briefly appears to regard it as such, before terminating all existing and potential thought processes in the surrounding environment with his answer.

"They make you do that cute face."

That does it.

Some lines should never be crossed.

It's basic human decency. Clearly, he doesn't have any.

Rapidly discarding of the butterfly remains by tossing them as far as the laws of physics allow – it's a wonder those are still operational with Snake around – I make good use of my now free hands by shoving him down and pinning him to the ground.

"What _cute_ face?"

He glances up at me with the unperturbed nonchalance of a Buddhist elephant.

Nonsensical animal metaphors are another disturbingly infectious syndrome I have no qualms about blaming him for.

He better come up with a tolerable reply.

"This one."

That's _despicable_.

I can't believe I've fallen into this infantile trap.

Saving face is out of the question. Only denial will do.

I release my grip on him and roll to my back. A shameful defeat by all means, but also the only way to prevent further damage.

I study the sky at great length and ignore him.

It doesn't make him go away.

"I thought you wanted to keep it as a trophy."

"I changed my mind."

"Anyway, that's not the point, with the butterfly."

"I _hope_ not."

My crash course in astronomy comes to a halt as his hand makes an uninvited relocation onto my chest. It's alarmingly warm and comfortably placed, despite its invasiveness.

The touch makes him a great deal harder to ignore.

The will to resist mellows within mere seconds, and I slowly turn my head to him.

"The point is-" he taps his finger, letting his voice build up some of its trademark intensity, "-the tiniest, most insignificant creature can change the world. Even tear it apart."

"Oh." I re-analyze the information. "Well, that's obvious."

He frowns.

"I thought it was ridiculous."

"When it was about butterflies and tornadoes, it was."

He disconnects his hand from my chest, bringing it to his forehead while squinting as if he's just received a mild but healthy dose of brain damage.

He'd deserve it. No man is immune from karmic retribution.

"What's the difference?"

"Metaphors are supposed to make no sense. That's what they exist for. It's like a smokescreen. And you aren't any good at them, anyway."

He squints some more, almost turning it into an art form.

"You just used smokescreen as a metaphor."

"No. It was a simile."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay." There's no change in tone, but it's a dismissive, condescending kind of 'okay'. I can tell.

"I _am_."

"If you say so."

He ought to try out interrogation. Especially the renowned field of false confession extraction. He'd make the Spanish Inquisition look like a bunch of bleeding hearts.

"I do say so."

"Alright then."

The cycle of absurdity has to end at some point.

"Good."

Or maybe it's endless by definition.

He opens his mouth.

I give him a look.

He closes his mouth and shrugs.

I belatedly notice that the squinting disease has transferred to me.

Everything about him is contagious.

I listen to the assortment of ambient sounds the surroundings provide, absorbing a slice of crucial idyllic tranquility before returning to the topic at hand.

"But it does make sense. The world is a fragile place. The only thing keeping it together is a collective survival instinct and luck. It's a delicate balance. Too delicate."

His forehead wrinkles up, indicating a temporary visit to the land of seriousness.

"You mean the Cold War?"

"The Cold War now. Something else later."

There's always something.

There's nothing but radio silence on his end, so I finish the thought.

"It only takes one person to tip it all off."

He's not a stranger to the concept.

I'm fairly intimate with it, myself.

The ticklish irritation of recollection begins to arise, digging its way from the subconscious.

"Actually, I read something like that once. It even had that damn butterfly of yours." I keep weeding through a collection of strangely detached memories. Sidestepping old ghosts. "It was about a time machine."

I shut my eyes the second I notice the highly unfortunate slipup.

This definitely wasn't a detail I needed to share with him.

There's a prolonged pause with no input from him, and desperate hope against all odds on mine. The silence before the storm.

Then-

"You read science fiction?"

Too late.

He'll never let it go.

I feign casualness, attempting to suppress the urgency that the word stream is anxious to carry.

"It was one of those last resort things."

He nods agreeably.

"Of course."

I keep still, awaiting the inevitable.

"You know, Para-Medic loves Star Trek. You two really ought to hook up."

"Go to hell."

He smiles. It contains that old, steady weariness; the one bred by war and melded onto him, giving the impression of an innate trait.

"Been there, done that."

I'm not letting him off that easily.

"Wouldn't hurt you to revisit it every once in a while."

"Don't think it'll be too long a wait," he acknowledges, holding on to his smile and giving it a slight sideways tilt. "Want to come along?"

It turns out that smile belongs to the list of Snake infections as well.

I can't help but return it.

"I'd love to."

To Hell and back. It's what we could call a routine trip, but the allure never fades.

And I couldn't ask for a better companion.

A revelation dawns in, slowly seeping through the atmosphere and demanding notice.

There's some special about the _now_.

A sharp smell binding the air in timeless suspense.

A definitive edge to it all.

Snake leans closer, breathing at a low pitch.

"You know something?"

His face betrays nothing, let alone 'something'.

Neither does his lone eye, glistening intently in the night's silence.

"What?"

I wonder if he feels it as well.

He pauses, cupping my cheek with his hand.

"Pointy ears would look good on you."


End file.
